The Fall of Older Holmes
by judejackson
Summary: With Sherlock, John, and Lestrade dead, Mycroft faces mental and emotional defeat.


Mycroft sat in the dimness of the Diogenes club.

S i l e n c e .

Paper articles were tossed about the floor before him, all with different dates.

"**SHERLOCK HOLMES A FAKE. DEAD FROM SUICIDE**."

"**A SUICIDE AT SCOTLAND YARD; DETECTIVE INSPECTOR GREGORY LESTRADE**."

"**ARMY DOCTOR JOHN WATSON: MISSING, POLICE GIVING UP SEARCH. PRONOUNCED DEAD**."

Mycroft's eyes were cold as they tried to focus on the black and white text. He didn't even bother to sit with a proper posture, he slumped resting his cheek in his hand. Next to him laid a nearly empty bottle of scotch, the cap pulled off and thrown to the side. Mycroft reeked of it, it was the only thing strong enough that would numb the pain caused by everyone around him dying. He didn't feel anything but pain. His brother was the first to go, then the man he had feelings for, and then John. Him and John weren't friends per say, but they were close, chatting in the room where Mycroft sat, chatting about Sherlock and cases…he could almost hear the voices but they were trapped in his mind..trapped away and encased in a shadow of pain and misery.

He almost forgot what they looked like, if it weren't for pictures he probably would have.

The only thing making noise was his watch. Tick..tick..tick..tick..tick..tick..and then it grew louder..tick..tick..tick..tick..Even when he pulled his face from his hand it still echoed in his mind. Growing louder and louder. His sight went from the floor to the wall. Staring, not looking but staring straight ahead. The light tan paint on the walls stared back, and the voices projected memories on the blankness. It was Sherlock. Young, energetic, suddenly the room had changed. He was in the Holmes' manor. The room grew in size, indicating he was in the ballroom. He sat in what appeared to be a wooden chair. He looked down and his clothes were the same but his size, his size was back to the size when he was a child.

"Mycroft!" A young voice called out. He looked up and his expression was shock. It was Sherlock. Sherlock as a little boy, he was dressed like a pirate. Purple shirt, tan pants cut after the knee, and one of Mummy's scarves wrapped around his waist. He had an umbrella as his sword and had a paper had with a skull on the front with an ink pen. Kid Sherlock spoke once more. "Didn't you hear me? You are my prisoner now! Argh, get to the jail! Which, uh, is the Laundry room closet!" Sherlock shuffled over to Mycroft and poked his arm with the umbrella sword. "Come on…let's go!" Mycroft snapped up and played along. "Yes! Right away Captain!" he held his hands up as a hostage. They walked through the ballroom doors and into the Laundry room down the hall, once into the closet and Sherlock poked him once more with the umbrella. "Now! Yee shall stay in here until Mummy ices the cake! Then yee shall be freed! Just for awhile though, maybe I'll let you off for the night..but just this once! But until then, you are my prisoner! [echoing as he ran] Happy Birthday brother!" Sherlock stuck his tongue out and was off on another adventure.

Mycroft shut his eyes and counted. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. The room became silent. He was back in reality. He didn't want to open them. He got up, stumbling. He walked over to a glass cabinet and opened it. Inside was a glass vile containing one pill. The pill from a 'Study in Pink'. He walked back to his chair and sunk down in it. He stared at the vile in his hand. Popping open the top, he turned the vile over and the pill fell into his palm. Grasping it between his thumb and index finger, he set it to his lips, swallowing it and washing it down with the rest of the Scotch. He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened up a blank text.

"Of all ghosts the ghosts of our old loves are the worst."

-Mycroft Holmes

He set the phone down and closed his eyes. He stared at the wall once more, stared at the emptiness. He was back inside the Laundry room closet, only this time, he wasn't a child. The door opened and a bright light came through. It was Sherlock, yes, but with others. He was in his home and Sherlock was aged and John, Lestrade, even Molly was with them. Molly was holding a case of some type. Sherlock looked at Mycroft and smiled. "Happy Birthday Mycroft." and everyone else in unison said "Happy birthday!" Molly held up the case "We made you a cake! John's family recipe." Mycroft looked at each one of them. Their faces, their voices..it was all so real. "Oh..thank you." he said. He cleared the doorway so they could come in. It became a party, Lestrade had gifts from everyone in a bag. Molly gave him a tie with umbrellas on it, John a new watch, Lestrade a book from Mycroft's favorite author, and Sherlock the words "I love you, my dear brother." It was more gratifying than any material thing.

Those words echoed. "I love you brother.."

Mycroft's vision went black. He was back in reality, falling to the ground. Once on the ground, he was kneeling on top of the newspapers. One cough and splatters of blood fell from his throat. His eyes remained closed, and he collapsed fully to the floor. His head pounding. It was dark, and cold, Mycroft Holmes was dead. He had accepted the cold exit, he had wished for it for so long but kept going in hopes of waking up from this nightmare..but alas, within three years his life was thrown into a deeper darkness. It was time to give up, It was time to join the others. Ten minutes later, there was banging on the door.

"Mr. Holmes, are you alright?" said a voice, knocking frantically. She had heard his coughing and the sound he made falling to the ground, having no idea he was there. She dipped into her pocket and grabbed her set of keys to his room. Unlocking it and pushing it open, she ran to his side. "Mr. Holmes..? Can you hear me? Mr. Holmes….?" She crouched down nudged him, tears swelling up in his eyes. She stood up and screamed for help, running out of the room. Mycroft Holmes, who ran the British Government with a cellphone and powerful mind. Mycroft Holmes, who was seen as such a well kept man, committed suicide by a pill from a case solved by his baby brother Sherlock and slipping into a sleep like coma, still respecting the tradition of the Diogenes club. That was one for the papers.


End file.
